


Oblivion

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter, 1935---Spain on the precipice of Civil War, Europe in the midst of growing discontent and the rise of totalitarian governments, with Italy under the dictatorship of Mussolini.</p><p>Romano believes he knows the despair to come; Spain refuses to believe in anything but their ability to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

_Winter, 1935_

The room was almost uncomfortably warm, in spite of the bitter winds and driving rains of winter rattling the windows and creeping in under the cracks in the doors, whispering against Romano's bare feet as he stood in front of the sink up to his wrists in hot water scrubbing furiously at the dishes beneath the depths. He could feel his hair curling in the humidity, the air tight and close from the lingering effects of a busy stove, the continued crackling of the fire in the sitting room, and the rising steam of the water pouring from the faucet, scalding his hands and distracting him from Spain's heavy stare from across the narrow room. He could almost hear the questions churning in Spain's mind, the appreciative yet bewildered wonder at Romano not only cooking him dinner but also washing dishes, all done without asking and with a minimal amount of complaining.

Romano could not bring himself to answer the unasked questions in Spain's eyes; to verbalize the weariness and worry he felt gnawing at his insides, the unceasing fear he harbored for Spain, for himself, for what would become of them. Already, Spain looked tired and ill around the edges, his people growing more fractious and angry every day, civil unrest brewing in their hearts as some starved and others bred discontent. Romano felt it under his own skin, in his blood, in the murmurs of his dreams...the dark cloud that crept across Europe, the blackness that seeps through borders, poisons old alliances, threatens all.

The worry and the fear niggled constantly at the back of his mind; with every change that he cataloged in Spain, the pressure behind his eyes grew, aching and insistent, a reminder of his utter inability to change a damned thing,  powerless to the whims and fates that dictated their long lives. And so he wanted to spare Spain what he could, even if the idiot refused to see what was before them, continually setting Romano's teeth on edge with his ceaseless smiling in the face of certain despair.

He shifted his eyes away from Spain, focusing firmly on the water, abusing the cookware with the violence of his scrubbing, ignoring Spain's entreaties to let him help.

“Let me, Romano! You made such a great dinner , I should do the cleaning!” Spain said, voice warm and happy, even as he coughed halfway through the sentence, lighting Romano's nerves on fire.

“Idiot! You're sick, so stay the fuck where you are and let me do the goddamned dishes in peace!” Romano barked, swallowing his anxiety, jostling the dishes under the sea of soapy water. Even though he kept his gaze on the constant movement of his submerged hands, he could picture the confused pout on Spain's face, lips pushed downwards in pathetic response to being denied what he wanted.

The rain began to fall harder, splattering loudly. Romano turned to look out the window, only to find his reflection smudged out of recognition in the steamy fogged glass. All he could see were his eyes, wide and tense as he tried to block out the sound of Spain's wracking cough.

And then there were hands on his in the water, firm and sure, and a body pressed up against his back, no longer as strong and vibrant as it was once was. Romano closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, wishing for the first time that he were a more patient, more guarded man, unable to stop the fear from rising in his throat at the sensation of feeling Spain's fevered forehead pressed against his neck.

He tried to push Spain's hands back out of the water, protesting, “What the fuck are you doing? I told you to stay the fuck over there! You're too sick to be doing this shit.”

Spain's hands wrapped around his, helping to drag the soaked rag across a plate, as he murmured, “I'm fine. Stop worrying!”

Romano sighed, letting his hands be guided by Spain, trying not to fight him too much in his current state, “Bastard. I can hear you coughing and sneezing and being not fucking fine when I'm in Italy. Things are most definitely not fucking fine!”

Spain laughed and pulled out of the water, running his soapy fingers up Romano's forearms, straightening up to press a kiss to the crown of Romano's head, letting his body melt against his back in obvious invitation as he said, “Everything is fine when I can be with my Romano like this. When I can see you and hold you and kiss you, what could be wrong?”

Under the water, Romano's hands began to shake in fury; frustration and fear building in him as Spain continued to paint carefree kisses against his neck, his cheek, his temple, even as he shared the unnatural warmth of his fever, even as he crowded in so close that Romano could feel his loss in weight, the slight tremble under his skin.

“Stop. You shouldn't be fucking doing this right now!” Romano said through clenched teeth, trying to shake off Spain's soft, enticing, seduction.

“Don't be silly, Romano. Do you think me so fragile?” Spain said and Romano could feel his indulgent smile against his cheek.

In the wake of this casual dismissal, in the face of Spain's continued refusal to acknowledge Romano's suffocating awareness of the precipice they were both standing upon, he snapped, all of his impotent rage and fear flowing forth.

“Yes, that's what I fucking thing, you oblivious, careless idiot! How can you ask me what's could be wrong? Are you so fucking blind?!” He shouted, punctuating his anger with vicious jerks of his hands in the water, spilling it over the sides of the sink and onto the floor.

He thrashed enough that Spain finally took a step back, giving space to the seething anger of Romano's words as they filled the cramped, stifling air, “How can you fucking sit here and kiss me like everything's roses and daisies? You should take a look in the goddamned mirror, see what this fucking world is doing to you. Or look out your window and open your fucking eyes to see what's coming. I know you must know.”

Romano stopped, sucking in great gulps of air, feeling his chest shake with the despair of what he could not help but believe was coming to them all, voice breaking as he started to speak in bitter Italian, “Civil war for you. Fucking Mussolini and his little puppet government for me. Germany's Nazi bastards. Depression everywhere. Maybe not so bad for all of us right now, maybe we get a few more years of this fucking farce that we can all get along on appeasement and isolation. But not for you. It's here and now. And..and...”

He paused, taking in Spain's utter stillness and silence behind him, finishing with a whisper, “And I don't fucking know what what's going to happen. To us.”

The touch of Spain's hand on his wrist under the water made Romano turn to see that Spain had unbuttoned his shirt entirely, revealing the vast expanse of his chest, still making his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry with want, even without its usual proud tone and definition.

Unable to look away, Romano murmured, attempting to rouse himself into anger, “What the fuck are you doing? You're too sick to be running around half-dressed, idiot.”

Spain said nothing, instead pulling Romano's hands from the water, and turning them both around so that Romano was leaning against the opposite counter gazing up worriedly at a Spain who looked serious and determined in the hazy shadow of the overhead light.

Spain kept their gaze, still and sure, speaking in a soft but impassioned voice, “I've lived a very long time, Romano. I've seen many things, done many things, been many different Spains.”

Romano staid his reply, entranced as Spain held the tips of his fingers, guiding them, making wet trails up to his neck, tilting his head so that he could trace them along a tiny ridged scar as he explained, “This one is from the Armada.”

Romano's eyes followed the path of his fingers as Spain dragged their joined hands down his chest, feeling the twitch of Spain's stomach as his nails brushed over his skin, until they lingered on another scar, almost imperceptible above the line of his pants.

“A gift from France.” Spain chuckled wryly before moving their hands once again to the curve of his back, pressing their bodies closer together.

He paused, sighing into Romano's hair, making Romano's eyes flutter closed as he traced his fingers along the deep groove he found.

Spain hummed appreciatively, “Mmm, and this one, this one is from Turkey.”

Romano opened his palm against the scar, answering quietly, “This one you got for me.”

Spain used his other hand to tilt Romano's chin up from its hiding place nestled in the crook of his shoulder, smiling sadly as he slid their handhold away from his back to rest squarely over his heart. Romano opened his eyes, flushing as he took in Spain's unrelenting gaze, worry burrowing in his mind at the sight of the feverish pall of Spain's face, the clamminess of the hand holding his own.

“And this one?” Romano breathed out.

Spain moved his fingers from Romano's chin to stroke through his hair, shifting his hips so they were tangled together against the counter, answering, “Ah, this one I got when my empire was defeated. The Treaty of Utrecht. So very painful when my beloved protectorate was lost to me.”

Romano closed his eyes, leaning in to rest against his head against the hands covering Spain's heart, bittersweet memories of their last separation flooding his mind.

“All these scars, all these battles and losses, and I am still here, Romano,” Spain spoke down to his bowed head, running his fingers though the knots in his hair.

Romano wanted to let the warm reassurance of his tone assuage his worry and his fear, but he could not, even as Spain continued, a thread of distracting seduction creeping into his comforting tone, “And now you are here with me again and we're together and everything will be fine. I promise you. ”

Ah, how he wanted to believe in Spain's tempting and wonderful dream of a hopeful tomorrow, one where he could continue to fight with Spain during the day and  wind their bodies together under the cover of night, careless in their affection. To be a dreamer in such a moment as this was a thing much desired.

But Romano had never been very good at optimism and he could not deny the proof that confronted him every day: newspapers filled with dire predictions, the disappearance of his young democracy under Il Duce's thumb, the shared weariness and wariness of France and England, the way his brother looked at Germany with stars in his eyes.

The fragile feeling of Spain under his hands and lips.

Suddenly desperate, Romano wrenched his fingers out of Spain's grip, wanting to touch every inch of him, causing Spain to gasp and push forward as he let his hands roam  over his chest and back, lingering on the scars they had just marked. He kept his face turned away, despite the gently insistent pull in his hair to raise his head, doubtless wanting him to meet Spain's welcoming kiss.

But as he let his fingers walk the planes of Spain's body, tracing over the imperfections inflicted by time, feeling his way through Spain's long history, Romano chose instead to keep his lips against the heated skin over Spain's racing heart, trying to quell the shattering fear in his own. Unbidden and unwanted, dark thoughts seeped through his mind,

 _We will be separated again. The whims of the world we live in will drive us apart._   


And when Spain sighed happily and wrapped his arm around Romano's waist and pressed him up to perch on the narrow counter, he could no longer hide and he knew instantly that Spain had been able to read the fear in his heart. Spain's own eyes went wide with momentary shock and helplessness, dulled by reality, before he tightened his grip almost painfully around Romano, knocking their heads together in a bruising and abrasive kiss.

Surprised, Romano jumped, falling forward into Spain's grasp, teetering precariously on the lip of the counter as Spain twisted his arms all the way round his back, digging his fingers into the flesh of his upper arms, continuing to kiss him with enough force to steal his breath away. Romano opened his mouth, falling into the desperation of the moment entirely, feeling their sadness pour into one another, curling his fingers against Spain's chest, over his heart.

Spain pulled away, panting, freeing one of his arms to drag Romano's leg around his waist, moving against him as he ground out, voice ragged, “No. I refuse to let that happen.”

Thrilled and enraptured by the passion in Spain's tone, the firm set of his shoulders and the determination in his face, for a moment Romano let himself believe in the future Spain so wanted to have, reaching up to renew their kiss, licking at Spain's lips and sighing into his mouth. The moment disappeared almost as fast as it arose, swallowed whole by the irrepressible knowledge of the feeling of Spain's fever on his hands, the echo of his cough in his ears. The inescapable feeling of darkness in his own bones.

 _My little idiot, you won't have a fucking choice. We never did._   


He wrapped his arms around Spain's neck, twining his fingers into Spain's hair, unsuccessfully trying to quell his sorrow, hoping to bury it beneath affection.

Spain hummed in satisfaction, fleetingly softening their embrace before grabbing Romano's one remaining free limb, joining it with the other already around his waist, abruptly shifting them both away from the counter. Shocked, Romano tore away from the kiss, clinging to Spain as he felt two firm hands take hold of his backside before he was being slowly carried down the short hallway to Spain's bedroom.

He pulled at Spain's hair, hissing at him to be put down “right the fuck now,” to no avail as Spain continued to shuffle them both towards the bed, nipping at his neck and whispering, “I've got you. I've always got you, my darling Romano.”

Romano almost smiled when he was tossed on to the bed, sinking into its ragged depths, watching as Spain crawled over to his side, barely visible in the darkness.

For a long moment, they were silent but for the sound of the wind and the rain, hidden from one another in the night. Spain's hand traced idle patterns on his chest, pausing to linger over his heart.

Spain rolled on top of him, bracketing his arms around Romano's head, covering him so entirely, it felt as though maybe, just maybe Spain could shield them both from the whipping winds of change outside the front door.

“As long as I can still carry Romano to bed, everything will be okay.” Spain said, voice catching.

Romano clung to Spain, knowing that wasn't true, was never going to be true, and yet he couldn't bear the feeling of Spain's dreams crashing down around them, being too in love with the man and the fantasy to be its harbinger of demise.

And so he gave himself up to it one last time, holding his own sorrow and taking Spain's too, parting his legs to cradle Spain between them, warm and safe. He kissed him with all the hope he could muster, making a promise in his soul that no matter how long it took, he would come back to this dream and have it be reality.

He filled his mind with images of Italy, free and renewed in the spring. Of beaches and vineyards under an Iberian sun. Of tangled sheets and sweat slicked skin in the middle of the afternoon, lovers carefree and shameless.

He waited until Spain started to respond, until he was smiling against his lips once again, the grasp of his hands desirous instead of desperate, the air between them thrumming with nothing but lust and affection.

Romano took Spain's face between his hands, holding him gently, eyes filled with love and a mouth full of lies as he whispered, “Yes, everything will be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Astor Piazzolla's "Invierno Porteno,


End file.
